Richard Baker - Avenger

The two of them traded slashes and parries for three, perhaps four, passes of steel, and then Geran spied Valdarsel brandishing his skull-and-sunburst symbol, his voice raised in an unholy chant. Dark energy swirled around the wounded guard kneeling by the wall, drawing him back to his feet and staunching the blood that flowed from his fractured skull. Damn it all! Geran fumed. He’d put that fellow out of the fight, and Valdarsel had used his priestly magic to heal the man’s injuries and return him to the fray. He caught another swing from the first guard on his blade and circled his point under his foe’s, ending in a lightning slash that arced up and through the man’s throat. “Heal that if you can!” he snarled at Valdarsel as this guard fell back to the flagstones.

“Now you will witness the might of the Black Sun!” the Cyricist answered. He stretched his hand over the dying man at his feet, and began another chant even as the soldier he’d healed first surged back into the fray. Geran met the man’s assault with a furious counterattack of his own, trying to batter his way through the guard and get to the priest behind him, but the man had just enough skill-or caution-to stand his ground and foil the swordmage’s attack.

Time for a different tactic, Geran decided. He backed away a step and wove his sword through an intricate series of precise motions, summoning the most powerful spell of offense he could manage. “Nhareith syl shevaere!” he chanted, timing the syllables to the movement of his blade. A corona of blue flame woke around the steel, trailing behind it as it danced through the air, and with the final gesture of the spell, Geran thrust the long sword straight ahead as if to fling the blue fire from the steel. A sheet of fierce blue flame roared out over the hall, catching the guard who’d been advancing to attack, the guard with the wounded throat as he rose to his feet, and even Valdarsel behind his bodyguards. Black surcoats and robes smoldered as a swordlike slash appeared where the plane of searing blue flame struck. The guards crumpled under the full fury of the deadly spell, but Valdarsel was shielded by their bodies; he staggered back, hunched over the shallow cut seared across his midsection.

“To me! To me!” the priest shouted. But none of his followers were nearby. More battle spells rocked the building in the hall behind Geran, and leaping flames danced across the wall hangings, the ceiling beams, even the plaster of the walls. Valdarsel looked around in disbelief, and sudden fury twisted his face into a hateful sneer as his gaze met Geran’s. “I swear by the Dark Prince that you will never see the end of your suffering!” he hissed. Then he turned and bolted back through the doorway with the carved door.

Geran darted after the fleeing priest. The door slammed shut in his face and latched; he tried it and found it locked, but he’d caught a glimpse of the chamber beyond as the door closed. Fixing it in his mind, he brought the teleportation spell to his mind and snarled, “Sieroch!” In the blink of an eye, he stood in the chamber beyond, a lavishly appointed suite with ceiling-to-floor wall hangings in gold and rust red, opulent couches, and a gleaming wooden table. Valdarsel groped behind the arrases, evidently searching for a concealed door. He whirled to face Geran as the swordmage appeared in the room.

“Defend yourself, murderer,” Geran said in a cold voice. “I’ll run my sword between your shoulder blades if you lack the courage to face me.”

“Your anger has brought you far, prince of Hulburg.” The Cyricist priest sneered. “Are you so certain that you aren’t serving the Black Sun’s purposes even now? Perhaps Cyric has caused your thirst for vengeance to lead you to your destruction!” Clutching his amulet with his left hand, he chanted the words of another priestly spell. Geran leaped forward to strike him down before he could finish, but Valdarsel was quicker with his magic. Ghostly chains appeared around the swordmage, anchoring him to the ground in midstep. A dim purple radiance flickered over the spectral iron, its touch searing Geran’s flesh and sapping his strength. Geran struggled to advance, but he could only shuffle another half step before the chains coalesced around him.

Valdarsel laughed shrilly. “See? Your determination is admirable, Lord Geran, but all your passion and skill are nothing in the face of Cyric’s might.” The priest drew a long dagger from the sleeve of his robe, and began to chant another spell.

Geran wriggled his sword arm free and readied a spell of his own. “Haethellyn,” he breathed, infusing the long sword with a spell of defense. Valdarsel finished his dark prayer and directed a lance of dancing black fire straight at Geran’s heart, but the swordmage spun his blade in a half circle and parried the priest’s deadly strike directly back at him. Valdarsel’s eyes widened in disbelief a split second before his own black fire melted his holy symbol and burned deep through robes, mail, and flesh beneath. With a choking cry, he staggered back and fell, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The spectral chains pinning Geran where he stood suddenly wavered as the priest’s concentration faltered and failed. He dragged a foot forward through the vanishing chains, then the other, and finally strode free to stand over the fallen priest.

Valdarsel glared up at him, blood and smoke escaping from his mouth. Geran fixed his eyes on the cleric’s. Another fiery blast rocked the hallway outside. “I should let you die slowly and savor every moment of it,” he said, “but I can’t spare the time. This is for my uncle Grigor Hulmaster, you bloody-handed bastard.” Then he finished the Cyricist with a single fierce blow.

He stood and stared down at Valdarsel’s corpse for a moment, vaguely surprised at the lack of satisfaction he felt in what he’d done. As much as the Cyricist had deserved to die, the fact remained that Geran’s enemies still held his homeland in a grip of iron. He couldn’t believe that Valdarsel would have struck against Harmach Grigor without the knowledge and approval of Maroth Marstel or Rhovann Disarnnyl. Is that it? he wondered. Do I have to slay them as well to set matters right in my mind? Or is it simply that there is so much more to be done, and this is only the start of it all?

A great crash of masonry shook him out of his reflections. Sarth was still battling outside, and likely needed his help. Besides, nothing more would be put right if he didn’t take care with his life and freedom so that he could strike again. He turned on his heel and darted back to the door. With his sword in his hand, he drew back the bolt and hurried out into the hallway.

Roaring flames and thick smoke greeted him. Sarth’s spells or the battle prayers of the Cyricists trying to stop him had set the Temple of the Wronged Prince afire. The building looked like it was already well beyond saving, and was likely to come down around their ears at any moment. “Sarth!” Geran called. “It’s time to leave!”

There was no reponse at first, and Geran feared that Sarth had left already-or fallen in battle against the Cyricists. But then the tiefling sorcerer staggered through the smoke, coughing through the handkerchief he was using to cover his mouth. Blood streamed from a nasty cut above his knee, and his fine robes were peppered with blackened scorch marks as if he’d been caught under a shower of sparks. But Sarth’s eyes glowed with the hellish wrath he was capable of unleashing when angered or hurt, and Geran could see a half-dozen Cyricists lying crumpled on the floor behind him.

“Is it done?” Sarth asked through his handkerchief.

“Valdarsel’s dead,” Geran replied. “Come, we’d better get away from here.” He started down the hall leading to the back door, only to realize that a great collapse of the roof beams had made it impassable.